Skylark (31 page)

"Ah." I closed my eyes and focused my mind. "Faisel seemed to be directing operations,
a sort of field supervisor. Out of shape, a bit pompous, not physically courageous. It seemed to
me that he thought Smith was expendable."

"Very likely. And Smith?"

"Pure testosterone."

His brows shot up. "Eh?"

"No social inhibitions whatsoever. Not bright, but skilled and satisfied with himself. It
was almost as if he were laughing up his sleeve--at Faisel and maybe at the world in general.
Smith was cold." I hesitated. "You did ask for impressions."

He nodded, his hands folded, eyes intent.

"Faisel is a bully, a controller. Smith is something nastier, if that's possible. A tool who
prides himself on being an efficient tool. A professional killer." I stumbled on the word. "Alleged
killer."

Thorne gave a wry smile. "I'm not a solicitor, Mrs. Dodge. And I've laid down my
notebook. Then you think Smith could have killed your landlady?"

"Yes. In cold blood. He hates women." I glanced at Jay. "Despises is probably more
accurate. Ann and I followed those two men around Hambly as if we were invisible to them.
They didn't notice us." I paused and considered. "Or maybe they did, but they couldn't conceive
of us as a threat to their plans."

Thorne cleared his throat. "If Smith's telling the truth, they had no idea who
you
were, Mrs. Dodge. They noticed Mrs. Veryan as they were leaving the hotel for Hambly, but
they dismissed her presence as a coincidence."

Ann--we--had had a close call. I shivered. "At Hambly, it was Faisel, not Smith, who
killed the watchman's dog. I don't know that that means anything. They're both killers."

Noises emanated from the hallway, then from my father's room, and the connecting door
opened. Jay said, "I think they're back."

"Ah, there you are..." Dad stopped in the doorway.

I rose from my perch on the foot of the bed. "It's Detective Chief Inspector Thorne, Dad,
from London. Is Ann...ah."

My father entered with Ann on his heels. Jay performed introductions, and Dad and Ann
shook hands with the inspector.

Ann said, "I hope you're well, Mr. Thorne. You look bone-tired. Surely you're not still
on duty? We brought a bottle of whiskey for a little nightcap."

Thorne was smiling at her. "I might be persuaded, lass."

She beamed at him like a moon goddess and went to round up tooth glasses. I was glad I
had not taken a pill. Whiskey sounded far more appealing.

It was an unpronounceable single malt Dad had spotted in the bar. His mind must have
been in Scotland, explaining the day's debacle to the Galloway and Dumfries constabulary. He
swore he had once drunk the stuff in Edinburgh during an April blizzard.

We all sipped and made approving sounds. I drink scotch about once a year, so my
grounds for comparison were not wide, but it went down smoothly and the base of my spine
tingled.

Thorne looked blissful. Presently he asked Ann for the
AA Atlas
, copied out our
stopping places, and took us through an account of our movements. He expanded a bit on
Daphne's condition, which was grave. Trevor had quit his job to take care of his sister. When and
if she should be released, she would need careful nursing. Parks had confessed his own part in
the burglary and named Smith as Milos's assailant. By tacit agreement none of us mentioned
Milos's papers.

Thorne said nothing of them either. He had kept his silence almost from the beginning.
Someone had told him the papers were classified, someone with sufficient authority to make
Thorne keep to his silence, even when the rest of the world was talking about Milos's
revelations.

I liked Thorne, but he had lied to us when he said the papers didn't bear on the case. We
might have believed him.

By then it was eleven, and I was falling asleep sitting up. With some prodding from Jay,
Thorne rose to go. He promised to see us soon in London.

He threw us a curve as he left. "We must inspect the auto you hired in Yorkshire." He
had the grace to look embarrassed.

Dad ran his hand through his hair. "But you've charged Smith."

"With Miss Beale's murder," Jay murmured.

Thorne nodded. "Aye, that's it. The odds are we'll charge the pair of them with
attempting to kill Miss Worth, too, but we've no evidence they were in Dorset Sunday evening.
That being so, we have to eliminate other possibilities."

I said with some heat, "We have no motive for harming Daphne Worth."

"I don't have to establish motive, lass. Just means and opportunity. And I'd be no kind of
investigator if I didn't have your auto checked."

"But we have to return the car tomorrow, Mr. Thorne." Ann had meant to ride with Dad
to York in the morning.

"I'll tell the boys to step lively, then. Happen they'll be finished by afternoon. I'll not
take the keys from you now, but don't use the Escort until I give you the word."

My father said, "We'll cooperate, of course."

Thorne shook hands with Dad, who saw him to the door, and made a sketchy bow
toward the rest of us. Then he was gone.

Ann plopped onto the foot of the bed next to me. "I can't drive that car. Whatever shall
we do? George has to catch the train to the north." She was now on first-name terms with Dad.
Despite his somewhat pedantic style, my father is not at all formal. Ann's deference had given
way to her natural friendliness.

* * * *

The only solution to the car problem was for Dad to return the Fiat to Heathrow and fly
to Glasgow. The rest of us hung out at the Greyhound until the police finally released the Escort
at two-thirty. It was clean, they said. Actually it was covered with road grime. Jay drove us
lickety-split to York, using the motorways, because otherwise we would have had to pay a
surcharge for returning the car to the wrong place.

Jay left Ann and me to forage for sandwiches while he turned the car in. We had half an
hour to admire the walls of York before we caught the train south. We reached the flat in London
late, around ten, all of us exhausted and me hurting. I took four aspirins and went straight to bed.
I heard the phone ring a couple of times at the edge of awareness.

Next morning--I slept until eight--Jay told me both my parents had called that evening,
Dad from Glasgow, my mother from New York. Dad's reception in Scotland had been chilly
because of the publicity the press conference had received. He was coming back that evening and
would take a cab from the airport. My mother, apparently unaware that it was midnight when she
reached Jay, had wanted a thorough explanation of the press conference. When she asked to
speak to me Jay said I was asleep, bless him.

Sooner or later I would have to talk to Ma about my escapade, but I could not have
defended myself that night.

Jay served me tea and croissants for breakfast. He had gone out for the newspapers
around seven-thirty, and by the time he came back the press were in place, cameras at the
ready.

"Did they corner you?" I took a bite of croissant.

He grinned. "They tried. I spoke Spanish to them,
muy agitado
, until they gave
up."

"Why didn't I think of that?"

"Probably because you don't speak Spanish, darling. More tea?"

I held out my cup. "Did they recognize you?"

"I don't think so. It's a good thing I stayed off-camera in Shropshire."

I showed him the
Daily Blatt
. "You didn't. There you are leaving the
Greyhound with Ann."

He took the paper from me. "Nobody could identify me from that. I look like a
bandito
. Shall I shave off my mustache?"

"Sure." I knew he wouldn't. "And I'll shave my head and nobody will recognize either of
us. Give me back the
Blatt
."

He complied. "You feel better, don't you?"

"A lot. Dr. Mayfield said I could take my arm out of the sling from time to time." That
reminded me that I'd have to report to the out-patient clinic at St. Botolph's to have the dressing
on my shoulder changed.

We were trying to decide whether to call a taxi when Ann drifted in, yawning. She had
been rather mournful on the ride back from York because of missing Haworth again, but a night's
sleep had restored her to her usual cheer.

Jay made coffee for her, and I warned her about the press siege.

She groaned. "I have to go out. I promised Milos I'd talk to his landlady and rescue his
belongings."

"That does it," Jay said. "We'll call a taxi. Ann can ride with us to the hospital. There's
strength in numbers."

"If you go with us, you'll blow your cover." I explained to Ann about Jay's Spanish
impersonation, and she was enchanted. She decided to speak Latin for the tabloids.

Jay came with us anyway. We reached St. Botolph's around ten, thanks to another
blasé cab driver who shot right through the cordon of reporters. Ann patted me on my
good shoulder and reminded me to ask after Daphne. Then she went off afoot in search of
Milos's apartment, which was near the Gloucester Road Tube station.

My kindly Shropshire GP had smoothed the way for me by telephone, and I was
accepted on a local physician's list with a minimum of fuss. Finally I was called. Jay said he'd
wait.

He was browsing among the National Health pamphlets when I returned with my arm in
less restrictive strapping. He saw me and rose, smiling. "How are the stitches?"

"The doctor doesn't think there'll be much of a scar on my shoulder, but I may have to
have a plastic surgeon look at the arm."

"You could pretend you'd undergone some kind of initiation rite."

"Or become a Hell's Angel woman. Right." I wriggled my arm. "I was lucky Smith
didn't hit a tendon."

"Or your aorta." Jay gave my good arm a pat. We made our way to the lobby. "Where's
the restroom?"

"WC, please, or loo. It's down there." I pointed down the short corridor to my right. "I'll
ask about Daphne at the desk while I'm waiting for you."

"Good idea." He strolled off down the hall.

My friend, Mrs. Philbrick, was on the desk. She had seen me on the telly and made
much of me for a good five minutes while the other patrons looked on. I finally edged in a
question about Daphne. She wasn't allowed visitors outside the family, but, translating the
hospital jargon, I concluded they thought she'd survive. Her condition was "guarded." I asked if
there was a flower stall nearby.

Mrs. Philbrick gave an approving nod. "But do find something cheery, love, something
with a bit of color. Her brother, such a handsome gentleman, took up a bunch of dreary mums,
all white like a funeral, not fifteen minutes ago."

"Oh dear." I wondered if white chrysanthemums were universally associated with
funerals.

"Men!" Mrs. Philbrick gave me a matey wink and turned to help an elderly woman with
a question about her niece's kiddy in the pediatric ward.

I drifted to my left, toward the plastic couch I had sat on the week before. The lobby was
fairly busy. Medical types scurried down corridors. Patients and visitors knotted and separated,
rather like fish swimming among coral. I garnered some curious looks, but only the younger
children stared openly.

As I glanced around I caught sight of Trevor Worth. He was sidling down the left hand
corridor in the direction of the main entrance. Though he wore one of his natty suits, he looked
rumpled, almost distraught. I hesitated, hoping he hadn't had bad news, but decided I had better
explain Dad's presence in the flat.

I cut him off by one of the administrative offices. "Hello, Trevor. How's Daphne? I hear
she's better."

He stared at me. For a moment I thought he didn't recognize me, and my cheeks went
hot with embarrassment. Then his eyes shifted. "Oh, hullo. Yes, better. Sorry." He started to edge
past me as the office door opened.

A woman in a business suit emerged, followed by two men in the uniform of a delivery
firm who were carrying a filing cabinet between them. They blocked Trevor's way to the street.
The administrator was giving the two men directions.

"If you have a moment..." I began. Something was wrong. Trevor looked
wild-eyed.

I hesitated, spotted Jay, who was almost upon us, and turned to him with relief. "Oh,
Jay, here's Trevor. He says Daphne's better."

"That's good news." Jay held out his hand.

Trevor said something desperate under his breath and shoved past us. He ran a few steps
toward the entry and careened into the workmen, who dropped the file. A drawer popped open,
and papers spilled onto the tiled floor.

"Here, watch it, mate." One of the men grabbed for Trevor but slipped on the loose
papers and toppled sideways, swearing.

Jay said, "Sorry," just like an Englishman and moved off after Trevor. I watched Jay
hurdle past the workmen. He avoided knocking into a woman in a flowered hat who was coming
up the steps, then disappeared to the right.

I gaped after them. The workmen scrambled up and were trying to gather the papers.
The lady with the flowered hat had backed against the edge of the door, hands out
defensively.

"Where did he go? Did you see him?"

I whipped around.

Sergeant Baylor, her face pink, trotted up to me. She was carrying a small hand-held
radio with an antenna.

I pointed, and she dashed off, sliding by the bewildered workmen as if they weren't
there. The woman with the hat began to scream, though she sounded more excited than
frightened.

I decided I might as well join in the chase, too, whatever it might mean.

I scooted past the filing cabinet. "Sorry."

One of the men trotted after me. "What the bloody hell..."

I was wearing jeans and sneakers, so I moved fast. I stopped at the top of the wide stairs
and glanced wildly around. Jay and Trevor had crossed the Fulham Road at the zebra and were
half a block down a narrow street that led north. Jay was gaining on Trevor, running hard, and
Sergeant Baylor chased after them, going flat out. I sprinted across the zebra and followed
them.